


Your Daisy

by thelonggoodbye



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonggoodbye/pseuds/thelonggoodbye
Summary: Taylor's been planning her wedding since she was six, and Crazy Dave's Wedding Emporium, a hasty Instagram announcement, and a ring pop were never in her fantasies. But sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just having a good time before the You Need to Calm Down video is released tomorrow! I can't wait to see it and weep at the complete lack of any Kaylor content whatsoever. I've been working on this for a bit, so I'm hoping the next update comes quickly! If you want to yell with me on twitter, you can find me @twxstofate

Taylor's mouth feels fuzzy and her head isn't pounding yet, but it's clear that the moment she opens her eyes and light hits, it will be. In a desperately futile attempt to delay the inevitable, she rolls over and finds herself snuggled into another, very warm person.

Her eyes fly open, and then the hangover hits with a vengeance.

Step One: puke.  
Step Two: groan and generally curse life.  
Step Three: figure out why model and probable goddess Karlie Kloss is crashing in Taylor's hotel room instead of her own, just next door and every bit as comfy (more, even, because it doesn't come with a side of puking superstar as an alarm clock).

Taylor's only consolation is that Karlie doesn't look much better. The tall woman is curled into the fetal position, clutching her stomach. "I have zero memories of last night, Swift," she says, which is not generally a good thing with them. Last time, it led to grainy photos of them maybe kissing at a 1975 concert.

Allegedly kissing.

The allegedly is important. Taylor knows the truth, of course, and she's pretty sure Karlie does, but they've never talked about it. They didn't stop hanging out all the time, or holding hands or hugging or kissing each other's cheeks, but there is a new tension to it. It's the kind of tension that comes with knowing. 

The point of the matter is that waking up wrapped around Karlie like a giant burrito with no memories of the night before has proven to be a dangerous activity for Taylor before, and she's not trying to be loud right now. The few weeks post-tour is the only break she's ever given herself, and she doesn't plan to ruin them with a media firestorm about whether or not she's dating her best friend.

"Same," she groans back at Karlie, and it may be late, but at least she has the excuse of feeling like her body is orchestrating a mutiny. She doesn't reach for her phone yet, though. Despite the jackhammer concerto in her head and general feeling of unease permeating the room, she isn't quite ready to let go of the feeling of holding Karlie and being held in return. 

"I don't think I want to know," Karlie says. She waves a hand in Taylor's general direction. "Just leave me here to die."

Something on Karlie's finger glints. Taylor's heart stops for a second, but it wakes her brain up and it starts working overtime to excuse away the way something on Karlie's hand caught the light. It could be anything. "What's on your hand?" It isn't a careful venture, but she hasn't been a careful girl for a long time.

Karlie looks down at it, and Taylor knows from her expression. It's a wide-eyed surprise that turns to horror faster than it takes to say "media shitstorm."

"Well, fuck," Taylor says and that about sums it up for the two of them.

"I like rings," Karlie's protest is weak. "It could be a normal ring. A friendship ring."

"A bros before hoes ring."

"Exactly!" Then she takes a moment to think about what she's said. "You're maybe more of a hoe than a bro though, Taylor."

She's… not wrong, especially if they are actually married to each other.

The part of her brain that's always songwriting starts scrolling through words, writing in the background even though she kind of needs all of her focus on the problem at hand.

Hitched.

"I'll check the news," Karlie offers. A good thing, too, because Taylor is not afraid to, per se, but she's definitely avoiding her phone. 

Wedded.

The sound Karlie makes is neither human nor godly. It falls somewhere between a cat being slowly strangled and the death moans of a walrus. It’s a hell of a way to enter marital bliss. Instead of words, Karlie just chucks her phone at Taylor.

Nuptials. 

First, she notices the fact that it’s at 13%. Nice. But then she realizes that they aren’t just dealing with some blurry photos of some blonde girls who are maybe them maybe kissing. This is a whole other ballgame. This is Taylor’s Instagram, Karlie’s hand with a ring on it, the caption “SHE SAID YES” leaving little to the imagination. 

Spouses.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Karlie says, her voice suddenly heavy. “Fuck.”

“Tree is going to kill me.” Taylor moves across the room faster than her hungover self should be able to manage and grabs her phone and external battery. In a few seconds it’s on, and then promptly shuts down again from the number of calls and texts she’s received since it died.

Karlie is twisting the ring around in circles, and Taylor’s a bit jealous that she doesn’t have one yet (yet? She has no right to be considering keeping this going, she reminds herself, and tamps down the desire to actually marry her best friend like an ‘80s movie cliche). Then she remembers what Karlie playing with her jewelry so openly usually means. “Are you okay?”

The one word response is enough to make her heart drop to her stomach. “Josh.”

And it’s a sign of how wrapped up in this whole fantasy she is that she completely forgot her best friend (and wife, now, if they actually made it legal) has a boyfriend. A long-term, public boyfriend who her Instagram feed says she loves very much. “Oh,” Taylor responds a beat too late. “Oh no.”

“He’s mad,” Karlie says. “It’s… this isn’t going to be good. For any of us.”

The worst thing is that Taylor actually likes Josh, as much as she can. He’s a nice dude, doesn’t get along with his family, treats Karlie right when he happens to be around, and has great taste in men. Better than Taylor’s, at any rate. Although, in terms of people Karlie could get accidentally and very publicly hitched to in Las Vegas, Taylor isn’t actually the worst. She’s kind of killing it at spin, and she’s still America’s sweetheart, even if people are kind of tired of her face being everywhere during tour. With Tree at her side, she’s unstoppable.

Then, like she’s been summoned, Tree calls again. “We’ll fix this,” Taylor promises. And then she answers.

“I expected better of you.” Taylor flinches when Tree answers. She’s not often so mean about Taylor’s fuck-ups, but this is arguably her worst one ever. Then: “How is Karlie?” And this is why Taylor is probably never ever going to fire Tree. She knows what (who) Taylor thinks is most important and protects her above anyone else. 

“Kind of freaking out.” She checks and yep: eyes distant, focused on nothing, still worrying at her ring, all classic signs of a complete Karlie freakout. She adds, “Kind of super really freaking out.”

“I’ve already talked to Scooter, and he’s willing to let me take point on this one.” Not a surprise, because of the two of them Tree’s more confident by worlds. “I’ve also tried to get in contact with Mr. Kushner, but have yet to hear back.”

She imagines he’s handling his own PR disaster with far fewer facts than Karlie and Taylor have, and they aren’t exactly killing it on knowing the details of last night. “What’s the plan?”

She can imagine the way Tree’s face must be scrunching up. “It’s a hard call. You and Karlie are legally married.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed. There’s a record of it at Crazy Dave’s Wedding Emporium, and while I’ve offered them a significant amount of money and signed CDs for Dave’s daughter, I wouldn’t be inclined to trust them. And, of course, you posted that photo. There’s a lot more to cover up here than there was in December.”

“Thanks, Tree, I am aware that I’m an idiot.” That gets Karlie to look up, a wry smile on her face that says she totally agrees with Taylor’s self-assessment. “What do you recommend?”

There’s a pause, and then Tree lays it on them. “I think you should stay married.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Taylor was a kid, she’d always imagined her part of the wedding: big, poofy white dress, the kind that would make her look like a princess. It would be a big party, family and friends all around. She’d never gotten to the person at the end of the aisle. First, she hadn’t cared, but once she’d realized it was always going to be a woman, she tried to shut that part of her brain off.

Clearly, it hadn’t worked, considering she was now married to a woman. 

And Tree was still waiting for a response.

“I’m going to put you on speakerphone. I think Karlie should hear this.”

The other girl looks up again, her eyebrows arched even higher than usual. “Hi, Tree.”

“Hello Karlie,” she responds. “I hear congratulations are in order. You and Taylor are legally married.”

It would be all too easy to say that Karlie doesn’t react at all, but Taylor has spent a lot of time studying her. The side of her mouth twitches ever so slightly, and there’s a momentary furrow in her brow. Once Taylor sees those tells, it’s easy to read the stress in the lines of Karlie’s body. “Okay. And what are we doing?”

And so Tree repeats herself, “I think it is for the best that the two of you stay married, at least publicly, for now.”

Karlie swallows something back. Taylor knows her face probably says everything she’s thinking, her dismay and confusion and the way that she’d wanted to come out on her own terms, not during a drunken evening she can’t even remember. 

“Okay,” she says then, and Taylor’s heart thrums in her chest.

Which is dumb, because this is just another PR relationship. No matter what she and Karlie may have been thinking last night, the important thing is what they’re thinking now, sober. And Taylor definitely isn’t thinking about Karlie’s pink lips and the way she’s worrying the lower one gently with her teeth. 

“What are people saying?” Karlie is staring intently at the phone, as if it’ll just magically pull up a Buzzfeed article about how Taylor Swift and Karlie Kloss totally just proved Kaylor is real and we can’t over how adorable it is, guys.

Right. Taylor has to focus. Drunk her (and Karlie) probably put both of their careers in jeopardy last night, and she’d really prefer not to be accused of queerbaiting until she ends up hiding away from the world until it forgets her.

“A lot,” is Tree’s answer. “We can compile some of the most prominent tweets, Instagram and Tumblr posts, and articles if you’d like to see them, but I recommend you stay off social media yourselves until you get here. Taylor’s plane will be ready to leave for Rhode Island in two hours.”

“So we just do nothing?” Karlie asked. 

Tree sighed. “For now. We’re all headed to Rhode Island for now because that seems to be our best bet to avoid paparazzi. They’re swarming both LA and New York at the moment. Once you get here we’ll start staging photos, so hold off on anything too elaborate with your makeup and hair.”

“Okay,” Taylor says, and then, “also, sorry.”

“Apology accepted. But I’ll be expecting a week of drinking mimosas on the beach by myself once we get this figured out. See you in Rhode Island, Taylor, Karlie.”

And then she hangs up. Which leaves them alone again.

Karlie puts her head in her hands. “No offense,” she says, “but I very, very deeply regret whatever happened last night.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, because there’s not really anything to do but agree. “We royally fucked up.”

“I’m going to,” Karlie gestures at her room. “If we only have a couple hours, I should pack. And brush my teeth.”

“Agreed.” Taylor’s mouth tastes like something died in there. And not something clean and hygienic either. A possum, probably. “I’ll order room service and have it ready for when you’re done.”

“You’re an angel.” Karlie flashes her a grin. “If nothing else, being married to Taylor Swift is probably going to be like having the most conscientious roommate ever.”

“That’s me,” Taylor says, and if her voice sounds a little bit hollow, that’s no one’s business but her own. “Most conscientious roommate award goes to T Swift.”

Karlie slips out the door, but not before winking at her. “See you in a bit.”

Unless she’s gone to freak out, Karlie seems to be handling this shockingly well. But Karlie’s kind of like that. She doesn’t have the strength of anxiety Taylor does. And Taylor is excellent at worrying. So she does that in between showering and throwing on a pair of skinny black jeans that she thinks might actually belong to Karlie and a white shirt. 

It’s after all of that when Taylor finally thinks to look at her camera roll. 

Here’s the thing: she records everything in pictures. She used to keep a diary, when she was young and teetering on the edge of the kind of fame that leads to people selling the secrets you wrote in cursive and hid with the flimsiest of locks. So now she trusts her iPhone password and the cloud and never takes any nudes, everything else is documented by a thousand photos. She never wants to forget the way this feels, the way every moment of her 1989 in 2014 felt, the way Karlie’s hand in hers feels. And if everything has to come in coded words and photos then she’ll work with the Polaroids and photos she’s got.

It’s a long way of saying that she’s got 200 photos of the night before and it doesn’t even seem that excessive for her.

Most of them are blurry shots of body parts immediately identifiable as Karlie's, and maybe Taylor should feel a bit bad that she's so intimately familiar with her best friend's body from all of the time she's spent staring, pining, but she doesn't. But there are a few damning ones: her and Karlie kissing, the angle awkward as they try to fit both of them into the shot. A small bottle of Patrón, two shot glasses between it. A wedding ring and a ring pop on their hands.

She's glad that's not the one her drunk self chose to post. Even off her face, she isn't willing to completely blow up her life.

Except she has.

Her phone buzzes again. Tree, confirming their flight. She takes a deep breath: she can do this. She has no choice but to do this. It's easier to focus on the next thing, because she's only about two seconds from checking her Twitter mentions and that's sure to be a disaster.

She checks her Twitter mentions.

It’s pretty vile. It isn’t just people calling her names, saying they hope she dies, and messages of betrayal re her never mentioning the whole being in love with Karlie Kloss thing (at that she wonders: do they even listen? because it’s been patently obvious in her music and her eyes for who knows how long, and it’s a miracle Karlie herself has ever noticed). To be fair, there is a lot of that. But there’s support, too. People are posting gifs and photos of every time she and Karlie have ever been in the room, saying how gorgeous they are together, and asking for the story of how they got together. They’re treating it like any other relationship.

And if that doesn’t bring tears to her eyes, well, what would?


End file.
